For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt like the weirdo amongst weirdos — like everyone else had been handed a manual for life that was somehow withheld from me.
At 49, I finally went looking for answers.
And it turns out, there was a reason.
I’ve been diagnosed with ADHD (combined presentation) and Autism Level 2.
The spectrum of emotions I have processed in the 10 days since diagnosis, all while showing up for my clients, has been wild! And also completely worth it.
As someone who had no sense of self until my mid-thirties, and a very limited emotional vocabulary, (the results of a lifetime of suppression) it has been an interesting, and at times confronting, journey as a therapist to witness and permit my own range of emotions arising as a result of this diagnosis.
Anxiety – I’m not gonna lie, the process was gruelling and anxiety inducing. While one of my daughters managed to power through all of the online questionnaires in about 3 hours, I took three weeks. Each question felt confusing, ambiguous and dug down into the recesses of 49 years of memories and subconsciously held trauma. I had to be super kind to myself and allow space for processing as things came up. I would answer a few questions, then put it down for a day or so before coming back to it. I’m grateful that I had the space and time to do this.
And then there was the anxiety on the actual day – What if she says I am? What if she says I’m not? Very Schrodinger’s cat – both realities existing until someone said it out loud.
Surprise – while I had been the one to seek this out, when the doctor said the words Autism Level 2, I first felt disbelief. I have spent my whole life putting on a brave face, sucking it up, and denying the difficulties of my reality. I had spent decades gaslighting myself into believing I was coping better than I actually was. I knew ADHD would be confirmed, I thought I might just scrape in with Autism too. You know, just a little quirky. Turns out I’m more than a little quirky. The struggle is real. The struggle has a name.
Grief – this hit next when I realised I had somehow navigated and survived a HUGE portion of my life feeling like a constant failure when I didn’t measure up to my potential, when I actually required more support than most. I wondered what life would have been like if these issues had been named earlier. Much, much earlier. I grieved for all the unnecessary pain young Caroline went through, things being harder than they needed to be.
Guilt – blaming myself for not choosing this earlier. Also, a huge layer of guilt and regret for the very stressful environment I provided for my children as a very young, abused, neuro-divergent mum always skating on the edge of autistic burn-out, trying to follow rules and expectations that didn’t work for any of us.
Anger – for all the times I was unsupported, unguided, unappreciated, called too sensitive, left out of groups, told to just figure it out, denied my reality, taken advantage of, and harshly punished for my differences, even by my care-givers. Knowing I deserved much more kindness and much less judgement has been truly rage-inducing.
Pride – in myself and my ability to have achieved what I’ve achieved so far and to still be standing. Pride that I had already made many of the recommended adaptions for myself and I’m now in better shape than I’ve ever been, emotionally, physically and professionally.
While some outsiders might look at my mistakes and focus on them (teen mother, ex-bankrupt, divorced, got a bachelor degree and hecs debt but then not working in that industry, don’t own a house, drive an old car), I choose to acknowledge how much I have achieved despite the constant internal struggles;
• my kids know they are loved as they are – unconditionally,
• my strong marriage with my second husband who loves me and my quirks,
• the business I’ve created where my clients feel safe, supported and transformed,
• all the times I felt like ‘stop the planet I want to get off’ but kept going,
• all the times I chose dignity over disrespect and left jobs and people who didn’t treat me kindly,
• the welcoming home environment I have managed to create every time we have had to move – despite the demands of adapting to change and disruption,
• the multiple tertiary qualifications I have achieved without assistance.
Courage – I am fortunate, after a lot of hard work, to have a secure supportive marriage, authentic relationships with my quirky kids and a few solid friendships (all of whom have varying degrees of neuro-divergence). I recognise the privilege, stability and safety this gives me and I am now determined to use it to spread awareness and dilute stigma among everyone I meet. I’ve been telling each of my clients as I’ve seen them this last week and have been well received. I’m seen as weird anyway, may as well provide the rationale!
Acceptance – Over the last few years I have become much more accepting of my true capacity for socialising and am no longer willing to push myself to socialise in ways that require a day or more of recovery (big parties, small talk, inauthenticity). The thing that has changed since diagnosis that I am now clear that, if I lose people out of my life as a result of not engaging in activities that are actually harmful to me, then they were ones that don’t deserve a serve of my precious capacity anyway. It’s a good filter.
Gratitude – for all the people who love the real me, and provide a safe environment for me to be me. Gratitude for having the capacity to have finally gifted myself this confirmation and cleared the confusion. Gratitude for all the capacities my unique wiring brings – deep sensitivity, pattern recognition, deep empathy and caring, ability to dive deep into research, follow threads and draw connections, directness, sharp intuition, honesty.
Joy – I took a solo walk along the waterfront, with my music in my headphones (a soundtrack to life) and got caught in the rain. No one else was silly enough to be out on the usually busy path and I soaked up the ability to express without anyone watching. I allowed my inner child out and we bounced, skipped, twirled and danced our way along the waters-edge. It was magical, exhilarating and life-giving. A truly joyful moment and a hint of many more to come now that I’m no longer pretending to be typical!
Seeking diagnosis is a deeply personal choice, and one I avoided for almost 20 years.
There was fear: of being labelled, of being dismissed anyway.
There was defiance: why do I need someone else to tell me what I already know?
And there was practicality: what would it actually change?
But what I didn’t expect was this – the quiet relief of no longer having to wonder.
No longer pretending.
No longer forcing myself into shapes that were never made for me.
No longer trying to be accepted by people who were never going to see me clearly anyway.
This diagnosis hasn’t changed who I am.
It’s given me permission to meet myself with more honesty, more compassion… and, for the first time, a real sense of coherence.
For most of my life, I thought I was missing the manual.
It turns out…
I was just reading the wrong one.
